


168 - Van McCann: Anti-Anxiety Medication Alternative

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Hero Van, Mini Fic, Reader-Insert, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 06:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17401937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Van trying to calm you down when someone comes at you for your opinions and things your passionate about”





	168 - Van McCann: Anti-Anxiety Medication Alternative

Maybe you were just too smart for your own good. If you could be naive, or live in ignorance, things would be easier. You wouldn't notice the bad. The injustice. The wrong. You wouldn't feel the need to speak up, speak out. There wouldn't be so much backlash from your small-minded family and your closed-minded 'friends.' Maybe if you could just not care about it all, you could live in the same bubbly sunshiney world Van seemed to. 

The boy was blessed and his lack of suffering meant he'd never really thought about anyone else's. It wasn't that he didn't care, it was just that he didn't think about it. When you first started dating, it took a long time to reconcile loving a person that didn't get angry about things like you did. In the end, you realised he was actually good for you. If you had to fight the big, bad world, then at least you could come home to warm, soft Van. He'd rattle on about music and Larry and the new curry place down the road, and he'd remind you of the good you were fighting for in the first place. Not everything needed to be political. Sometimes you were allowed to just exist and that was enough.

...

You were home alone all day. There was nobody to bounce your thoughts off and nobody to vent your rage to. As soon as Van walked through the door, he knew something was wrong. 

"Y/N?" he called out. The house was too cold and too quiet. When he couldn't find you in the kitchen making tea or out the back having a smoke, he checked the bedroom. You'd cocooned yourself up in a blanket and wedged your body in the small space between the bed and the wall. You did that when you were angry or hurt. Something about the hard floor was comforting, grounding. 

You had heard Van calling for you but you didn't answer. You knew he'd find you. He sat on the floor with his back to the wall and attempted to pull you from the blanket burrito. You made an angry moaning sound and he stopped trying to touch. He couldn't see your face but you could see his. He looked around the room, then back at the pile of blankets. He was chewing his lip and thinking. 

"What's happened?" he asked in the most neutral voice he had. "Y/N? You should talk about it. You don't do too good when you bottle stuff up," 

"You wouldn't get it," you replied, voice muffled by a pillow. 

"Probably not. But I'll listen and I care 'bout you. So... Please?" You moved the blanket so he could see your face. He smiled. "There she is! Come on. Sit up. Talk. Is it your uncle again?" 

"How'd you guess?"

"You get angry-sad when he says something shit,"

"Yeah, we'll... he's fucking topped himself this time." 

You sat against the wall with Van and let him put his arm around you. He was quiet as he listened, nodding when he should and smiling when it was appropriate. As you spoke, the rage resurfaced, and your hands got shaky and tears started to bleed down your face. Your uncle, at best, was strong in his convictions. In reality, he was homophobic, misogynistic and highly fucking illogical. And, he had access to social media. A bad combination. You’d spent too many hours arguing with him. 

Feelings valid and reaction in proportion to the situation, Van didn't tell you to calm down. He didn't suggest forgetting it, moving on. He didn't justify your uncle's perspective or play devil's advocate. He was on your side unconditionally. 

When you had no more to say, you sat for a few more minutes in silence. 

"I'm just... so tired of it. I'm just tired. And angry," you whispered, shrugging in defeat. 

"What do you need?" Van asked. 

"A smoke. Some tea. To break something."

He nodded and stood up, holding a hand out to you. Straight to the backyard, Van sat you down on the grass and told you to wait. He disappeared inside and returned carrying one of the boxes of empty bottles from the kitchen. They hadn’t been put out for recycling since the last party. He went back and forth until there were four boxes in front of you. He picked up a bottle and looked at the old tree in the corner of the yard. 

"Come stand behind me," he said. You couldn't be bothered standing, so you crawled and sat at his feet behind his legs. 

"What..." you went to say, but the answer was flying through the air. As the bottle smashed against the tree, you found the energy to stand. Van handed you a bottle. You threw it hard and the shattering glass was satisfying. 

"Here," he said, as he lit a cigarette in his mouth then handed it to you. "I'll make tea. Keep going." 

You watched him walk inside, then turned back to the boxes. You smashed bottle after bottle, each one settling the storm inside you. Van was quiet upon his return. Sitting on the grass behind you with two mugs of tea, you didn't realise he was there until you turned around to collect more empties. Looking at him, he wasn't amused or happy. It wasn't an activity meant to be fun. He understood the gravity of the moment, of the situation, of your hurt. 

"Thank you," 

"Easy, love. I got you."

When there was nothing left to break, you stood side by side with Van. The mugs were almost empty of tea and the tobacco was doing its job. There was a lot of glass on the ground, hidden between the blades of grass. 

"How..." you went to ask. Such a mess. 

"I don't know. We'll sort it out tomorrow. Let's have some food, yeah? Watch some T.V." 

You nodded and followed him inside. 

After Van's homemade pizza, you curled up on the couch. He put something mindless on and started to brush your hair with his fingers. You were ready for touching now that you'd exercised your fury in the ruin of glass. Van spooned behind you on the couch, bodies stretched out and covered in a blanket. Every few minutes he'd press a kiss to the back of your neck, lips to bare skin. You'd shiver each time like it was the first time. 

"I know that it's not always the best for you but I love that you're like this," Van whispered. 

"Like what? Always angry?" 

He laughed. "Yeah, kinda. I don't like that you're upset and stuff. But you care, you know? More than anyone else I know. You think bigger than just this fuckin' city and you're dead smart and... You get angry 'cause you care. I'm just... I don't know, Y/N. Don't know what I mean. I don't see things like you do, but you see them right. I just love you loads for it and I'm proud of you." 

You nodded to show you'd listened but didn't know if there were words to express how his had made you feel. Biting down on the wall of your mouth to stop yourself from crying, you pulled his arms around you tighter. 

There is no such thing as too smart for your own good. You weren't naive, or ignorant, and things wouldn't be easier if you were. The bad would still be there. The injustice. The wrong. You just wouldn't be equipped to be able to help, to defend, to be part of the solution. Your family would find something to fight about, still. And even as you were, you could still live in Van's bubbly sunshiney world.


End file.
